


Valentine's Day

by DaringlyDomestic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Grieving, Irene Adler - Freeform, M/M, Misunderstanding, Mrs. Hudson is a cockblock, NSFW, Pining, Unspoken Love, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-19 16:47:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5974531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was originally supposed to be part of the domestic one-shots series, but it kind of ballooned into a fic deserving of its own world. Now it's a stand alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. February 14, 2010

**Author's Note:**

> This fic does not follow the BBC Sherlock timeline exactly. It's called creative license. Sue me.
> 
> Please read the notes at the beginning of chapters. I have done my best to include relevant trigger warnings. I tend to write angst and don't want anyone to be upset by unintentionally reading a triggering chapter. Always feel free to message me on here or on tumblr (i am daringlydomestic on there too) if you have questions or want a safe summary.

A loud persistent ringing steals its way into his dreams. Nonetheless, it takes him a few more moments to surface and realize its his mobile. He reaches blindly and manages to grab the mobile without knocking the lamp completely off the bedside table. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he checks the caller ID.  _Why am I not surprised._ Lestrade takes three deep calming breaths before answering.

"It's four o'clock in the morning, Sherlock. What do you want?" he snaps wearily.

He rolls onto his back and groans as Sherlock launches into an agitated tirade. As the minutes pass, Sherlock grows more frantic and barely slows to draw breath. Lestrade can literally feel the blood pumping in his head. He rubs his fingers along his hairline willing the burgeoning headache away. Finally, the oxygen requirements of Sherlock's lungs force him to pause. Lestrade jumps at his chance.

"Will you by any chance be coming to a point sometime today or did you just call to harass me? We just wrapped a case, Sherlock. I don't have anything new yet. I've only been off-duty three hours! Anyway, don't you have a flatmate to keep you entertained now?" 

Sherlock huffs haughtily, Lestrade can hear his jaw working and lips tightening through the phone.

"Honestly, Graham. I am not a child! I don't need to be entertained. I need a case!"

Sherlock abruptly stops speaking and Lestrade can hear muffled voices in the background. He strains to hear, but he can't make out any distinct words. Sherlock hastily barks into the phone,

"Call Gregson and get the details! We'll meet you at the scene."

He rings off without another word. Giving it up as a bad job, Lestrade takes one last longing look at his bed before dragging himself into the bathroom while dialing the Chief Superintendent's private line. 

Sherlock twirls happily and briefly thanks the criminal classes for their unprecedented but impeccably-timed burst of productivity. Bounding into his room, Sherlock strips out of his dressing gown, shouting for his flatmate.

"John! Case! We've got a case! Be ready to leave in ten minutes!"

His voice is muffled as he rips his t-shirt over his head, but he can hear John cursing upstairs.

"Fuck off, Sherlock! We just finished a bloody disaster of a case and I deserve a bit of a lie-in!"

With an exasperated growl, Sherlock wrenches on his aubergine button down.

"The Yard called! London needs us, John!"

Sherlock knows that John cannot resist being needed. Sure enough, Sherlock hears John's feet hit the floor with one final, "Christ!" before John starts slamming drawers. Four minutes later, with what Sherlock considers an excessive amount of door-slamming, John appears in the kitchen, dressed, armed, yawning but ready. Sherlock is already a tornado of energy ready to tear the flat apart in his eager anticipation. Whirling toward the door, he shoves a paper cup into John's hand, shrugs on his coat, and is sweeping down the stairs before John's brain catches up to what has just happened.  _Speedy's isn't open yet! Did Sherlock make coffee? For me? Dear God, that man in that shirt is going to be the death of me! What the hell is going on?_ John eyes the cup warily but decides he is too tired to care. He downs the coffee and sprints down the stairs. HIs gun is tucked into his waistband and his hands are steady as he chases after his mad genius. 

* * *

 

They had made record time and arrived on the scene just twenty minutes later. Sherlock had shouted at everyone and sulked in disappointment when he declared the scene a 5 at best. Twelve hours later, Sherlock is furious and John's patience is wearing thin.

"Are you completely incapable of handling standard police procedure or are you just an idiot??"

Sherlock snarls at the unfortunate young lab tech who is on the verge of tears. Apparently, there was a mix up and the samples had not been properly labelled at the scene - completely useless now. With a quivering lip, but a resolved expression, the tech does not back down.

"I don't know what to tell you, Mr. Holmes! I wasn't present at the scene. You'll have to speak with the senior medical examiner."

John smiles apologetically and grips Sherlock's arm as he surges forward. Sensing that there is nothing more to be gained from the inept technician, Sherlock turns and stalks out of the lab. As the door swings shut behind him, he can hear Sherlock yelling down the hall,

"For God's Sake, Anderson! Must your incompetence always compromise my investigation!"

John follows the rampaging detective with a short "Sorry mate!" for the nonplussed lab technician. 

 

* * *

Two hours, three cab rides, and one monumental tirade later, John is so annoyed and exhausted that only his hunger is keeping him awake. He watches Sherlock frantically pace across the sitting room floor. He knows he is supposed to be listening to Sherlock puzzling through the case, but he can't ignore the fluid lines of Sherlock's body in motion. His back held taut with stress, his hips winding sensuously with each circuit, and his bum wearing the hell out of those trousers. Piercing grey eyes lock on his and Sherlock stops talking. John stutters out an apology and Sherlock looks disappointed, if slightly amused. 

_What the hell is wrong with me? I must be delirious! Once we finish this case, I am going to insist on a big full breakfast and a long night's sleep. I don't care if he sets the bloody flat on fire - I am not moving for at least 12 hours._

With a groan of defeat, John sinks his face into his hands. The left one shakes almost imperceptibly. The moment is broken as Sherlock straightens with a delighted cry.

"Clever! Of course, very clever, John! Come on!"

And just like that, they are in the backseat of their fourth cab in as many hours.  _What an appalling waste of money,_ John thinks with a grin.

* * *

Once Sherlock has walked the Yarders through his solution to the case, Lestrade only keeps them an extra hour. Thankfully, the sky is already darkening into night - _a respectable time for sleep,_ John muses gratefully. Sherlock, of course, has other ideas.

"Dinner?" he asks, already headed for Marylebone. John would much prefer his bed, but Sherlock requesting food is almost unprecedented and John does not want to discourage him. Plus he's starving. He nods and follows Sherlock, who stops in front of a bustling Japanese restaurant. John looks dubiously at the large crowd waiting for tables.

"Or we could get a takeaway," he suggests.

Sherlock smiles and glides to the front of the line. Before they can inquire about the wait, the hostess recognizes them.

"Mr. Holmes!" she exclaims. "Right this way. We've been expecting you."

John is so grateful he almost collapses. When they are seated in a corner booth looking out on the entire restaurant, John asks

"Do you know every restauranteur in London?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and retorts, "Only the ones worth knowing."

They break into giggles. The welcome release of post-case endorphins amplifying their genial senses of humor. The waiter stops to fill their water glasses, light the candle on the table, and drop off menus. The menu is a small typed specialty list and as John looks at it, his eyes widen.

"Sherlock --" he begins.

"Mmm?" Sherlock replies disinterestedly.

His eyes are busy reading the room.

"These are all couple's pairings. Don't they have a general menu here?" John asks, looking around for a waiter.

Without breaking his concentration, Sherlock replies, "Not today."

His response confuses John. _What day is it?_ He is getting as bad as Sherlock. Every table in the restaurant is decorated with pink flowers and champagne. The realization makes John's blood run cold.  _Bloody hell! I am at dinner with Sherlock Holmes on Valentine's Day. We've known each other for all of sixteen days. Clearly Sherlock knows what day it is, but perhaps he does not understand the significance of going for dinner._ John clears his throat and wriggles uncomfortably.

Two weeks ago, Sherlock made it very clear that he was not interested in any type of romantic relationship. _Would he be offended to know that everyone in the restaurant is assuming they are a couple? A fair assumption giving the setting_ , but John doesn't want his flatmate to feel uncomfortable. When the waiter returns to take their order, Sherlock orders a wonderful bottle of red wine from memory, and John insists that he is not Sherlock's date. The waiter is flustered and removes the candle, but emphasizes that the couple's menu is all the restaurant is serving tonight. He hurries away to fetch the wine and a reprieve. Those quizzical, gorgeous steel eyes meet John's across the table and he knows he is so screwed. 

They stumble back to the flat, incandescently happy and slightly drunk. The adrenaline still pumping through their systems puts off any thoughts of sleep. John collapses into his chair and is surprised when Sherlock hands him a tumbler of whiskey before sitting himself across from John.

"You hardly ever drink," John states with a questioning lilt as he sips the amber liquor. It burns warm and sticky in his throat -- liquid honey. Sherlock leans back and motions with his hand as he talks.

"We're celebrating," he says cryptically. John basks in the glow of the whiskey, the fire, and the easy companionship.

"Remind me. What are we celebrating?" he whispers.

The tension crackles between them as Sherlock considers. After a few moments, Sherlock raises his glass to toast, "A case well-solved!"

John raises his glass to meet Sherlock's and purposely does not think about why he feels so disappointed. They drink in silence, savoring the stillness of the flat. Eventually, Sherlock stirs. He leans forward in his chair until his face is mere centimeters from John's. John can feel the damp heat of Sherlock's breath ghosting across his own lips. His eyelashes flutter but his hands are steady.

"I don't mind, you know?" Sherlock murmurs.

John's head is swimming and he can't place the conversation. "No?" he asks.

Sherlock smirks at his confusion and elaborates.

"At the restaurant, the candle, and the menus...I don't mind."

John licks his lips.

"People will talk."

Sherlock's eyes track the movements of John's tongue.

"They do little else," he replies.

The air crackles and John can't look away. His future will be decided by the next move they make.

BAM!

Their door rattles against the wall as Mrs. Hudson pushes it open with her tea tray.

"Sorry! Sorry, don't mind me, boys."

John is still frozen in his chair, feet planted firmly on the floor, leaning toward Sherlock's now empty chair. Sherlock takes the tray and slams it with unnecessary force on the kitchen table. With a knowing wink at John, Mrs. Hudson retreats from the room.

"I hope I'm not being presumptuous, but I didn't mean to interrupt," she warbles as she starts down the stairs.

"You are!" Sherlock yells.

John's heart soars.

"You are being presumptuous!" he shouts as he slams the door behind her. Without so much as a backward glance, Sherlock storms to his room and doesn't come out the rest of the night. 

John sets his empty tumbler on the side table next to his chair. He hobbles his way slowly up the stairs and strips for bed. His hand shakes as he undoes the buttons on his vest. Angrily, he rips the bloody thing apart, throws it into the corner of his room, and climbs into bed wearing only his pants. He closes his eyes and ignores the warm tears rolling unbidden down his cheeks. 

 

 


	2. February 14, 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To Sherlock Holmes, she is always The Woman.

The screeching of the violin wakes John at 12:01am. His war-time reflexes, reinforced over this last year with Sherlock, have him alert and moving to the door before he is even fully aware.

Once he realizes that the flat is not being invaded by an Afghani mob, he stops moving and runs his fingers through his hair. They catch and snag on clumps matted down with sweat and sleep. John doesn't know how much more of this he can take. It has been almost three weeks since Irene's "relocation" and Sherlock has been unbearable. If John didn't know him better, he would say that the detective was pining. It was a good decision not to tell him the truth about her execution. John can't even imagine what that reaction would be like. 

John closes his eyes and breaths deeply, pushing back unwanted memories of another strop. When it had seemed like he and Sherlock were teetering on the edge of a cliff, both ready to take the plunge, ready to admit everything. But it had all come crashing down and John had been left looking over the edge alone. Sherlock had barricaded himself in his room all night, which had frightened John -- until the next day when Sherlock alternated between torturing his violin, performing explosive and acrid experiments, retreating to his mind palace, and pretending that John did not exist. Even worse, he no longer asked John to come along to crime scenes. John's limp returned and he looked into locum work at several local surgeries. Sherlock refused to eat and started to avoid the flat. The stalemate held for two whole weeks until John snapped.

He followed Sherlock to a crime scene and got access by chatting with Greg while Sherlock glared daggers at his back. John spoke with the whole team while pointedly ignoring Sherlock, who had had enough. He finished snarling out his last few deductions, hurled some final insults, and physically hauled John off the scene. Sherlock gripped his wrist hard enough to bruise as he dragged him down the block and around the corner. He pinned John's body to the brick alley wall and towered over him. His silver eyes were flat and dark, his chest was heaving, and his body was literally vibrating with anger. John had been enraged by his audacity.

"What the hell, Sherlock! I exist today, do I? Lucky me. You arrogant prick! You know what this work has meant to me. How dare you exclude me? I don't even know why you're angry! Why can't you just talk to me like a normal human?"

John had drawn himself up to his full height, refusing to be intimidated. Pausing to draw breath, he looked Sherlock right in the eye. The sharp anger, bordering on hurt, went out of Sherlock's eyes and he schooled his face into the familiar placid, emotionless mask. He drew back to a proper distance so that they were no longer touching.

Casting his eyes to the side, he said, "My apologies, John. It won't happen again," before he disappeared into the throng of people passing by. Several hours later, he had returned to the flat and their life had returned to normal, or what passes for normal around 221B.

 Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, John prevaricates. He is torn between going back to bed and going down to check on his friend. Sherlock has been volatile since the Adler business, but now he seems truly unhinged. Undecided, John leans on the wall next to the door and slides to the floor. He buries his head in his hands and tries to pin point the reason for Sherlock's worsening mood. Logically, he should be improving over time as the hurt grows more distant, but he is growing more and more agitated every day.

 ** _Today. It's today. The fourteenth. February the 14th. Valentine's Day._**  

Although he tries to pretend otherwise, Sherlock has one of the biggest hearts John has ever seen. He had liked Irene…probably even loved her. Of course, he would be affected by spending this day alone. John regrets his jealous actions. He would undo them all if it would bring her back. Sherlock deserves to be happy and safe and loved. They cannot possibly stay together as bachelors in their flat forever. It's illogical, but he can't help wanting it. He remembers the red-hot rage of watching Irene Adler flirt with Sherlock Holmes and the desperate violence he allowed in order to touch his skin. Sherlock wanted to add authenticity to his vicar's disguise and John was too happy to oblige. He punched those cheekbones and grasped that neck just to know how his hands would feel against that milky smooth skin. Now, he is ashamed. He can't possibly go downstairs and comfort Sherlock while he is crowing inside that Irene is gone.

Frustrated, cold, and guilty, John crawls back into bed, pulls the blanket over his head, and tries to drown out the agonized, haunting melodies drifting through the floorboards.


	3. February 14, 2012

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first Valentine's Day after "the fall." This is not a happy time for our boys in the show. Likewise, it is not a happy time in this fic. PLEASE READ THE TWs BELOW.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE PLEASE READ THIS. 
> 
> TW: mentions of past drug use, kidnapping, and torture.

The blazing Mediterranean sun beats down on the pristine white walls of the surrounding buildings. The mid-day heat has driven almost everyone indoors and the square is mostly deserted. Sherlock is seated in the shade cast by the large marble fountain. His eyes are closed and his face is lifted to soak up the sun. His curls ripple in the breeze and his plain white button-down shirt is open. He is uncharacteristically dressed down in just a button-down, Bermuda shorts, and boat shoes. To passersby he looks like just another carefree tourist enjoying the afternoon. It would take someone with intimate knowledge of Sherlock's habits to notice the rigidity of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, and the precise angle at which he holds his neck, craning for optimal hearing. A calculation that pays off when two men round the corner chatting rapidly in Greek. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches up into a small smirk -- he has been waiting for them all afternoon. His piercing gaze is hidden behind sleek, dark sunglasses as he tracks their movements across the square. The men are speaking in harsh, hushed tones. _Inconvenient._ Sherlock has to actively focus on the conversation to catch all of what they are saying. The tall, fair-haired idiot is admonishing the younger, dark-haired moron. 

"There is a reason we rotate the shipping dates and times, Stavros! Predictability could mean the end of our operation…and you _know_ what He does to defunct parts of the organization!"

The moron is nodding his head and scribbling frantically in a small pocket notebook. The taller man pauses, looks up, and notices his companion's compulsive notetaking. His face flushes puce and then darkens into a deep plum.

"Are you…are you TAKING NOTES??"

He snatches the notebook and throws the pen in the gutter. The moron stumbles back and is stunned into silence.

"Have you been listening to a single word I am saying? Do the words 'Top Secret' and 'Discretion' mean anything to you? We are taking every possible precaution to make sure that the schedule is unpredictable and you are WRITING IT DOWN! How hard is it to remember one date? February 17th…three numbers….2-1-7…just memorize the numbers…2-1-7. Got it?"

He stalks off, disgusted with his partner's stupidity. The moron hurries after him. Sherlock makes sure to stick around and maintain his "tourist" cover for at least 20 more minutes. He rolls his sleeves up to rest just below his elbows. It has been years since he last used, but the scars still bother him. He stretches his aching shoulder muscles. They are stiff from being held immobile for so long. With one last wistful glance around the square, Sherlock rises gracefully to his feet. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he sets off for the hotel, whistling a jaunty tune.

* * *

 When he gets back to his room, he pulls out a small satellite computer and fires off a terse email detailing the results of the afternoon reconnaissance trip. Sherlock has never appreciated Mycroft's penchant for omniscient meddling before now. Being effectively exiled and alone is taking its toll and, as much as he hates to admit it, Mycroft is a comforting link to home. Sherlock shakes himself and scowls. He needs to put an end to that line of thinking. This is likely to be the last op that will allow contact between Mycroft and himself. After this, he will probably have to go radio silent without backup. A nondescript hotel employee delivers his dinner an hour later. Sherlock lifts the silver lid covering his plate to find a typed telegram.

**Information is valuable. Rendezvous at home base 2300. Don't be late.**

**\- M**

Sherlock rolls his eyes. The timeliness reminder is superfluous and an unusually emotional response. Mycroft must be getting sentimental too. Flinging the telegram into the trash, Sherlock climbs into bed for a quick nap.

* * *

Sherlock wakes groggily and blinks in the dark. He must have slept longer than he thought. Turning to check the clock on the bedside table, he is yanked back by his hands. He tests his range of motion and is surprised to find that he cannot move his hands at all. Blinking a few more times, his eyes start to adjust and he can make out several chairs nearby. Of course, that should have been immediately obvious. He is seated now. How could he have possibly thought he was still in bed? Something is wrong. His mind is sluggish and his thoughts are fleeting. Bits of deduction are teasing along the shadows of his mind but he can't quite seem to pull them together into the light. Where is his conductor now? 

Drugged. He must be drugged. That would explain his oversleeping, disorientation, and inability to control his own thoughts. Hope its non-habit forming, he thinks with annoyance. It took a lot of effort to break the habit last time, and John will be so disappointed. No. He is not allowed to think about John. He left to keep John safe. Selfishly, he could not live in a world without John Watson, and now, he won't have to. Even if he never gets to see that beautiful expressive face again, it will be well worth it. #JohnWatsonLives means #SherlockHolmesLives. Sentiment. Yes, definitely must be drugged, Sherlock thinks as he tries to clear his head.

Suddenly, the chair next to him is groaning. Revision: there is a man groaning in the chair next to him. In fact, there are men groaning in the chairs all around him. It seems as though whatever drug was used is wearing off simultaneously. Deduction: They must have been kidnapped at roughly the same time. Inference: They were all meant to be here together.

A headache is beginning to form behind Sherlock's eyes as he strains his mind and focuses it on the task at hand. Who are these other men? There must be some link if we were all brought here together. If he could just think clearly, he could find the correlation. Sherlock's thoughts are interrupted by the scraping of metal hinges as a door opens into the room.

* * *

Hours later, Sherlock can tell because weak morning light is beginning to filter in through the windows, he has ceased to feel the pain. His mind has totally detached from the beating his body is taking, although he logically knows that it is still happening. He can still hear the thumps and sickening snaps as various instruments make contact with flesh and muscle and bone. But he hears as if through a far-away tunnel. His brain is filtering, disassociating the sounds from their meaning. Sherlock is floating warm and carefree in a bubble far away from this place. He is sitting across from John in his chair with a fire roaring in the grate in their flat. John is going on about Sherlock's messes and the drudgery of the clinic. Sherlock is smiling like a lunatic. He is sure he must look deranged, but he doesn't care about anything happening in the dark room anymore. John's presence burns through his head, lighting up all the doors he had covered and locked away. He rushes around flinging them open with reckless abandon. Why should he care? There's no more reason to keep those memories hidden. They won't interfere with the mission anymore. He has already lost. It will all be over soon anyway. Hundreds of treasured moments flash through Sherlock's mind…

_…John in the lab at Bart's with his mouth hanging open as Sherlock deduces his life story…dashing through London streets and laughing breathlessly in the entryway of 221B…John's look of disbelief when Angelo returns his cane and the meaningful stare that narrows in on Sherlock as if to says, Yes, I'll stay…John taking photographs of the Tong graffiti so they won't lose any evidence…John calling Sherlock brilliant and amazing and incredible…John's face when he figures out a key detail in the Andrew West case…the look they share at the pool when they decided to die together without a second thought…_

He can hear bangs and cracks in the distance, but he can't be arsed to care. Whatever is happening is _irrelevant_.

_…John noticing Sherlock's nakedness and laughing at Buckingham Palace…John teasing him about his coat collar and his cheekbones…telling John that he is Sherlock's only friend…_

He is drawn back toward reality when strong gentle hands grip his shoulders. He can hear someone whispering his name, but he fights to stay in his head. Someone is yelling his name. It sounds desperate and painful. It is an admonition and a wish. The choked-off cry mixes with the whispering until all he can hear is a cacophony of his name.

_…a frantic phone call…John's face and anguished sobs…looking down from a tall stone building…SHERLOCK!..._

Unwilling to wait any longer, Mycroft unties his hands and lifts an entirely unaware Sherlock from his chair. The captive members of Mycroft's security team (Sherlock's supposed backup) are being seen to by trained medical personnel. They are in no state to be debriefed right now. Mycroft will deal with them later. As his brother drags his limp body from the dank room, Sherlock's last thought before losing consciousness is: _Happy Valentine's Day, John. I lo--_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was intense. The next one will focus on year 2 of Sherlock's absence from John's POV, so that will not be incredibly pleasant either. But then Sherlock will be back and it will get better. Still working toward an unambiguous happy ending here. I promise! 
> 
> As always, whether you loved it, hated it, or just thought it was a waste of time...please let me know. I thrive off of comments.


	4. February 14, 2013

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you have made it this far, THANK YOU for sticking with it. I know it was a drag when I got sick and wasn't able to update as often as I wanted to.  
> This is the last update before Sherlock returns, so thank the lord for small mercies. That being said, this will still be extremely angsty. 
> 
> PLEASE READ THE TWs BELOW.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW - suicide, implied character death, pining, alcohol, destruction of property, despair

John Watson is sitting at the desk in his tiny one-room flat. His laptop is open in front of him and the cursor blinks impatiently.

John manages to peck out "johnwatsonbl" before he he has to stop.

 The wooden chair legs protest loudly as John leans back and balances precariously on the back two legs. His lip twitches at the small burst of adrenaline the threat of mild danger provides. The feeling is fleeting and John's face returns immediately to a stony mask. The hit is nowhere near the real thing. It would almost be worth the fall to feel it again. But John knows it still would not be enough. At best, it would be a shadow, an echo, of the most wonderful time of his life. He would give anything to feel the thrum of possibility, the ache of anticipation, the pulse of excitement that he always felt on cases. Blood pumping, sweat dripping, chest heaving joy. His longing is a physical pain that burns like indigestion and catches in his throat. He can't even remember the last time he felt that alive.

That's a lie. He knows exactly when it was. It is a precise measurement that pounds relentlessly inside his head. He knows the exact amount, down to the years and days. He can count the absence in hours, minutes, seconds, breaths, heartbeats. Everything he had loved and everything he had become ended that day with a shriek and a crunch in front of Bart's bloody Hospital. He watched his future soak the pavement and slip away to color the cracks in the cobblestones. He fell to his knees and prayed that the hot, wet, sticky mess would leave a stain. That it would leave him a tiny piece of this man to hold onto, a small fragment to prove that he had really existed. Fate had never been kind to John Watson, but it must have taken pity on him, or maybe it just has a fucked up sense of humor. Regardless, the blood had seeped into his trousers as he knelt on the sidewalk, leaving a permanent reminder long after the broken body was wheeled away. 

Those trousers are still hanging in John's closet. He can see them from his seat at the desk. Mrs. Hudson had tried to wash them after...after the funeral. John had been a man possessed. He berated her and left her sobbing on the landing of 221B. He has not returned since. He couldn't face every corner and shadow and speck of dust in that empty flat screaming its owner's absence. John certainly hadn't visited Molly at Bart's. He actually rearranged his whole life just so that he does not have to walk by that monstrosity. John can't even think his name. _How in the world did he think he would be able to handle the blog?_  Pictures and words were always so inadequate at describing the true mystery and beauty of his friend. 

With a loud breath that is absolutely not a sob, John pushes back from the desk. He knows he won't be visiting that website today. Standing in the center of the drab room, he surveys the cramped flat. His few possessions are stowed away with ruthless military precision. The exactitude and organization infuriate him. John wants haphazard stacks of paper and clouds of tobacco. He wants the stench of decaying body parts and the throbbing pain that comes from stepping on a random pushpin, rejected from the evidence wall months ago during a particularly challenging case. He wants thick layers of dust and dirt and that deep baritone explaining the importance of such things with a long-suffering sigh. He wants screeching violins and earsplitting arguments. He wants post-case dinners and quiet evenings in front of the fire. Anything but the miserable, empty, interminable silence that is his life now. 

Pain shoots through his leg and he wobbles unsteadily. He grips his cane with a shaking hand and roars with frustration and despair. In a matter of minutes, the flat is utterly destroyed. John's clothing is shredded, his bed is upended, and the chair is splintered. The only things still intact are his laptop, an old quilt tucked into the corner of his closet, an unopened bottle of whiskey, and those trousers. Breathing heavily and vibrating with pent-up rage, John curses his spartan lifestyle. Just this once, he wishes he owned a lot of things. Objects he could break and smash until everything around him is a pale reflection of the debris cluttering the cavity where his heart used to be. 

Realizing there is nothing left to be done, John clears a small spot on the floor and retrieves the trousers, whiskey, quilt, and laptop. Settling on the floor, John breaks the seal on the bottle and takes a long pull. The searing choking pain in his throat is replaced by the warm glow of the amber liquid. Satisfied, he sets down the bottle and holds the trousers tightly to his chest. He wraps the quilt around himself and sniffs deeply. His breath stutters as the achingly familiar scent fills his nostrils. John knows this is only a sense memory. It has been far too long for the smell to still be clinging to his flatmate's old quilt, but John doesn't care. It is incredibly comforting. He lies there clutching the ruined trousers, sipping whiskey, and breathing in his flatmate for a while - minutes, hours, days. _Who cares?_ Maybe he even sleeps a little.

When the flat starts to slip into darkness and the bottle is half-empty, John distantly remembers that it is Valentine's Day. A bitter smirk stretches across his face. _How appropriate_. With one last reassuring sniff of the quilt, John reaches for his laptop. Here, in the ruins of the flat with his friend's scent surrounding him and the evidence of that friend's life cradled in John's arms, he finally dares. Quickly, he types in the url and the familiar green layout springs onto the screen. With the courage of a soldier and the tenderness of a doctor, John clicks on the first case and reads. He reads the first words he ever recorded about the madman who changed his world. The first words he ever wrote about Sherlock Holmes. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are only three more after this. There is a pure golden Johnlock light at the end of this dark sad hell-tunnel.
> 
> If you made it to the end, please leave some feedback. Comments are a godsend. Whether you thought it was good, bad, or a waste of time and space please let me know! Thx.


	5. February 14, 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No Comment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, friends! We're getting there!

_John is cold and vibrating with fury but incapable of putting an end to the petty, yet painful, face-flicking. He meets Sherlock's eye and is reassured when he sees the stony resolve of a fully-formed plan in that stormy gaze. That is exactly how John sees him in moments like these. Sherlock, the oncoming storm. Lightning flashes dangerously in his eyes as he turns his attention toward Magnussen. John steels himself for battle. Sherlock is at his side now, he feels the hard heat of Sherlock's body pressing against  his own as a hand snakes into John's pocket. He breathes in. Breathes out. Thunder booms. What seems like a million red dots light up the dark Belstaff, and John's blood runs cold. Mycroft ushers Sherlock into a waiting black sedan. John spends one hateful endless depressing week of drudgery with his newly-forgiven wife while a deep pit of anxiety and fear claws its way through his stomach._

  _John and Mary are shopping for a baby mobile. The store is packed with expectant mothers and small children. John's phone rings. A call from Mycroft. John's world is collapsing, ending on a sunny cold Saturday morning in January. A harried mother-to-be knocks into John in her rush to make her purchases before the child sleeping in the pushchair wakes. John barely notices. How can anyone possibly be concerned with such trivialities when he has just found out that Sherlock is being sent away, leaving him behind…again._

_Sherlock is standing next to a small plane on a deserted tarmac. They share a meaningful handshake. John sheds a single tear. Engines rumble. The plane taxis. Suddenly, it's not flying. It's falling - a great heap of dark wool and curls with wind-milling arms. John already knows how this ends, but he can't help the scream that is ripped form his throat, "Sherlock!"_ _There is a sickening thud and-_

John jerks awake. He wrenches his eyes open and blinks in the dark. He is momentarily startled to find another body in the bed next to him. He sighs in contentment and moves to wrap himself around the body, but it is all wrong. It is soft and round and warm. There are no hard planes or freezing toes. Shaking the last of the sleepy fog form his head, John remembers - Mary. Of course, it's Mary. Quietly, he rises from the bed and pads into the kitchen. He cannot bear to be so near to her when his emotions are so raw from the nightmare.

John sets the kettle to boil - a routine borne of habit more than any actual desire for tea. He settles on a tall stool at the kitchen island and covers his face with his hands. It has been little more than a month since the tarmac. John can still see it perfectly when he closes his eyes.  

_An aborted farewell. More words left unspoken. A reprieve. It took Moriarty's face on every television set for England to realize what John had always known. The world will always need Sherlock Holmes. The plane returns. A door opens and long, slender legs descend. John's knees go weak with relief and hope blooms in his chest. Hope that maybe they hadn't missed their opportunity after all. Hope that he will now have the chance to tell Sherlock how he feels. Hope that they will take down Moriarty side-by-side, together. Hope that fades when Mary takes John's hand. The moment slipping away as Sherlock gives him a small, tight-lipped smile and folds himself into Mycroft's car. John chokes on the weight of all the words he cannot say._

John rubs his fingers in small circles across his temple tamping down the anger simmering just under the surface, even after all these weeks.

_One week after Sherlock's aborted exile, John is  summoned to the Diogenes Club for a strategy meeting where he is informed that he will not have an active role in the investigation. His role is to keep Mary close and content. Sherlock does not look at him once. John is livid. Of course he is. He rails about the Holmes brothers and their bloody power plays. He rants that they always leave him behind and out of the loop, even though he always does whatever they ask. Mycroft, ever the diplomat, tries to talk him down, but Sherlock remains completely silent. The silence angers John more than anything. He crouches down to be at eye-level with Sherlock, who is seated on a low leather couch. Embarrassingly, John's rage has run its course and his words come out as more of a plea,_

_"And you. You agree, do you? After everything we've been through. You're just going to send me back to Mary and shut me out again?"_

_Sherlock does not respond for a long time. John almost gives up any hope of getting an answer, but then that long, smooth neck turns toward him. John's stomach plummets as he searches his friend's face. It is more open than he has ever seen it. No obfuscation and no walls. Sherlock is letting John see the unbridled fear running behind the desperation and deep sadness. They stare at each other for several minutes before Sherlock breaks the silence with a simple request,_

_"Please?"_

_It is little more than a breath of air. John actually feels the gust against his mouth. He runs his tongue over his lip tasting it. This is really unfair. John never can deny Sherlock anything, so he nods curtly, straightens, and marches from the room without another word. He has not spoken to Sherlock since and he certainly has not been invited to Baker Street. He has had a few "chance encounters" with Mycroft, but even those were mostly devoid of any helpful updates._

The kettle clicks off and John sets about making two cups of tea. He really should go and wake Mary anyway. He has a lovely Valentine's Day planned, and thanks to Mycroft, he was even able to rent out the restaurant where he had tried to propose. A "do-over date," he will call it. Yes, today will be all about their reconciliation and new beginnings. John suppresses a shudder and he feels the shutters coming up inside his mind, distancing him enough to do this effectively. He has always been a poor actor, but he is an exceptional soldier. Shoulders back and strategy in place, John grabs the other mug and marches into battle.

 

Meanwhile at 221B…

Sherlock has been doing everything he can to bring the Moriarty matter to a swift, satisfactory close. He is working virtually non-stop and it is beginning to show. Dark purple circles accent the weariness in his strange mercurial eyes. He sways noticeably on his feet as he studies the evidence wall again. He wishes his doctor was here to remind him about the obscene boring essentials, like eating and sleeping. No matter how much effort Sherlock pours into solving this case, it isn't enough and Moriarty knows it. Sherlock has started getting demented presents again. They are not based on Grimm's Fairytales this time though. Moriarty has picked a new, horrifying anthology - John's blog.

 _Adding insult to injury. Isn't that the expression?_ Sherlock looks wearily around the sitting room and his gaze rests longingly on the dusty violin tucked safely on top of a pile on John's chair. Sherlock foolishly thought that putting all the physical reminders of John in one place would help him mentally compartmentalize.

 _It hadn't worked_.

Sherlock longs for the reassuring thrum of those strings under his fingers. He longs for the peaceful detachment he achieves while playing, giving him enough of a distraction to finally slot the pieces of the mystery together. But he can't. Even that comfort has been tainted by a wedding and a waltz that crushed Sherlock's world completely.

The ringing of the doorbell is insistent. He hadn't even noticed it. Mrs. Hudson must be out if she hasn't answered by now. Resigning himself to another "gift,"  he clatters down the stairs and throws open the door. He is surprised to see Wiggins on his doorstep.

"Alright, Shezza?"

Sherlock recovers quickly.

"Alright, come in Billy."

But Wiggins shakes his head and pulls a long slender box from the folds of his coat.

"Just dropping off."

He hands the box over and runs off. Sherlock closes the door and contemplates the gift as he climbs the stairs. It certainly doesn't fit Moriarty's pattern. He strokes the ribbon with one long finger. If it is from Moriarty, the inclusion of Wiggins could be very worrisome indeed. His entire homeless network could be compromised. Gathering all the clues he can from the wrappings, he eases the ribbon off and lifts the lid. A single long-stem red rose is nestled in dark red tissue paper.

 _Love. Romantic entanglement. Sentiment. Is this Moriarty threatening John again?_ He hasn't spoken to John in over a month. _Certainly no one can think he still has feelings for him?_

His gaze catches on a note resting underneath the flower. He grabs it and turns it over. It reads,

"…because you're an idiot."

Sherlock's heart pounds, but it is no longer pounding with fear. _Good ol' Doctor Watson. Leave it to John to break their hard-won cover and risk exposing the entire operation just to remind Sherlock that he is cared for._

Sherlock's face lifts in a goofy smile, and he twirls in place. Suddenly, the pile of mementos on John's chair doesn't seem sad at all. The objects seem eager for their owner's return. Sherlock places the rose reverently on the coffee table and reaches for his violin. He settles into a rhythmic calm as he restores the instrument to working condition. When it is tuned, Sherlock lets the music overwhelm him, and he sways to the beat as the solution starts to take form in his mind.

Three hours later, Sherlock has cracked the case and Mycroft's team is putting together a plan. It will still take several more months to unravel everything without alerting Moriarty, but the path is now clear. Sherlock, however, has declined a more active role in the operation. He has another obligation to attend to. Ensconced in Baker Street he picks up his mobile and calls Mary to set up a wedding planning session for the following day. Mary agrees happily and lets him know they'll be going over the arrangements for the reception. After she rings off, Sherlock pulls up his internet browser and types "wedding reception." He spends the next seven hours watching Youtube videos and learning to fold napkins into various shapes.

He bookmarks his two favorites for discussion with Mary tomorrow: _Swan or Sydney Opera House?_


	6. February 14, 2015

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This got incredibly long, but I didn't want to cut a single moment of the long-awaited Johnlock happiness. So...here is my self-indulgent, disgustingly happy, smut-filled chapter 6!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW! Explicit Sexual Activity!

**October 3, 2014: Back to Basics**.

Two-hundred sixty-nine days. Two-hundred sixty-nine unbearable days pass between Sherlock's aborted exile and the death of Professor Moriarty. Finally, finally on October the 3rd, 2014 a single bullet whizzes through the air and slices straight through his skull. Thanks to rigor mortis, a deranged smile is permanently etched on the nutter's face by the time John goes to see the body. Somehow, Moriarty's death does not bring the immense joy John thought he would feel. The simmering rage and desolation he has felt these past few months ratchet up until it is a full-blown boil and John has only two choices: scream or cry. He settles for a low keen and a tight, grounding grasp on the surgical trolley.

The man lain out on the table took so much from him, from them. He took their time, their happiness. He almost took their sanity.  John's fist clenches with the injustice of it all. Molly floats back into the room, and John schools his face back into an acceptable mask of grim satisfaction. He leaves soon after Molly's return. Once he is reassured that Moriarty is truly dead, there is no more reason to stay.

His heart speeds up as he marches down the long corridor. Mycroft and his men should be arresting Mary right about now. At least that thought makes John smile. Her detainment will give John true pleasure. He stops just before he reaches the door as a single thought overtakes everything else. 

 _He can go to Baker Street right now. He can find Sherlock and go_ _home_ _._  

He doubles his pace and practically flies out of the hospital. He is so intent that he barely notices a hand reaching toward him before he is pulled strongly into someone's arms. Confused, John tries to pull back to see his…attacker?

_Not really sure surprise hugging can be called an attack._

The hug is too tight and the circle of arms is unyielding. John shuts his eyes and uses his other senses. He feels a heavy coarse coat covering a long lean body. A hard, muscular chest.  _Must be a man._  Strong arms,  _obviously_. Tall, he can feel the man's breath riffling his hair. He can hear unsteady breathing and a stuttering heartbeat. He can smell rosin and tea, dust and formaldehyde. He can smell home.

He tightens his arms around the familiar lithe torso. After what feels like an eternity, the hug loosens enough for John to lean back and stare up into those incomprehensible ethereal eyes. God he missed this man. There is a guarded look on Sherlock's face that is barely restraining the longing John can feel in every line of the body pressed against his own. He reaches up to softly, gently cup Sherlock's face in his hands. Sherlock jerks his head back. Pauses. Analyzes John's face. Then gives in and leans into the touch. John strokes his thumbs along those impossible cheekbones. All John wants is to take his consulting detective home.

As he opens his mouth to suggest it, Sherlock's mobile rings. Sherlock looks caught. He glances at John who nods but doesn’t remove his hands from Sherlock's face. Sherlock looks at the caller id and answers immediately. "What?" he growls. That voice sends a bolt of arousal shooting through John. Sherlock looks at John in amusement. He purposefully lowers his voice to a virtual purr as he replies,

"I don't see how that is any concern of mine, detective inspector."

His voice bottoms out on the last two words and John can feel each syllable rippling down his spine. John retaliates by rising up on his toes to hover his mouth mere inches in front of Sherlock's. The detective trembles, gasps, and stops talking. John murmurs,

"Case?"

He is already flagging down a cab by the time Sherlock shakes the fog of desire from his brain and whispers, "Yes, John," to the empty air.

Deducing John's intention, Sherlock says, "We don't have to go. We can go back to Baker Street if you want."

John just smiles and shakes his head.

"Of course we have to go, Sherlock. It's what we do."

He slides into the cab without another word and waits. Sherlock bounds eagerly after him wondering how in the world he got this lucky. 

The case occupies the next several days, so John doesn't even notice that his things have been brought to Baker Street until they stumble into the flat, exhausted but triumphant.  John immediately heads for the kettle and stops short at the sight of his mug nestled among the mismatched cups in the cupboard. He whips his head around and sees Sherlock leaning against the doorframe. His whole body is drawn in on itself, and he looks like he wants to disappear into the wallpaper. John lets a smile break over his face and he tilts his head to the side.

"Did you do this?" he asks with open affection.

Sherlock nods and smiles softly. Still visibly nervous, the words tumble out of his mouth at breakneck speed.

"Not good? We were busy and I just thought you wouldn't want to go back there, you know, given everything. I didn't mean to just assume but it seemed like you wanted to move back in here. Unless, I missed something? I don't know. I'm so sorry, John."

John can see the walls coming up and the emotions being locked away. Acting quickly, he crosses the room in three long strides and grabs Sherlock's hands. He squeezes gently until Sherlock meets his eyes. He stands silently and lets Sherlock deduce him. He hides nothing.

A small smile starts to pull at the corners of Sherlock's mouth and happiness sparks in his eyes.

John sniffs and tells him, "It's good. Very good, Sherlock. Very thoughtful."

He pulls Sherlock into his chest and wraps his arms around him. Sherlock rests his cheek on John's head. After several moments of peace, John chuckles and adds,

"Plus I bet Mycroft was really pissed off at the inconvenience, wasn't he?"

He feels the rumble of Sherlock's answering laughter, and he beams. Once he disentangles himself from Sherlock's long gangly limbs, he realizes how tired he really is. Sherlock notices, of course, and gestures toward the stairs,

"Go to bed, John."

John looks at the stairs and then back at Sherlock. Shaking his head, he walks toward the bathroom but doesn't stop. He sweeps into Sherlock's room and turns back to the detective. He cocks a hip and leans seductively against the doorframe,

"Coming?"

They sleep next to each other, not touching apart from their intertwined fingers. John wakes early the next morning, stretches, and rolls over. He is delighted to see that not only is Sherlock still in bed, he is deep asleep. John thanks a god he is not quite sure he believes in that he gets this soft quiet safe moment to just be here and breathe. He memorizes the lines of Sherlock's face, sharp angles relaxed into soft crinkles where it rests against the pillow. John watches the slight fluttering of his dark wispy lashes as he dreams. He notices the slight wheeze of breath on each exhale. He should have paid more attention to Sherlock's health on the case, but he had been so overwhelmed by the reality of being at Sherlock's side again. He'll have to keep an eye out for other cold symptoms. Maybe he can cut the illness off before it really starts. 

 _Sherlock is such a bad patient_.

He continues his exploration, eyes roving over miles and miles of warm detective dappled in rays of soft morning light. John's gaze catches on the dark freckles peppering that long creamy neck and the light dusting of hair covering his muscular, firm, fragile chest. John longs to run his fingers through the delicate fuzz, but refrains. They have a lot to figure out. John gasps and feels queasy at the sight of the small pink bullet hole scar.

It is actually a relatively unassuming mark, less than three inches wide, but John's lungs can't get enough oxygen. Sherlock's skin is physically marked by pain and betrayal and loss. John wants to cover each mark with his hands, mouth, tongue until that is all Sherlock can remember. He wants to take every negative connotation and replace it with all of his adoration for the beautiful, brilliant man lying next to him.

Intuitively, Sherlock picks up on John's distress and his eyes flicker open. He takes in John's face and his brows crease in confusion.

"John, what's wrong?" he asks as he sits up to focus properly.

John fixes him with a watery blue stare that makes Sherlock's chest ache.

"I was so close to losing you again, Sherlock. I would not have survived that," John tells him with unwavering certainty.

Sherlock reaches for John's hand and places it gently on his chest. He laces their fingers together and lets John's head rest on his shoulder. They stay there breathing in synchronicity and reassuring each other with their presence until the bedroom is bathed in harsh afternoon sun. 

Over the next few weeks, they settle into their new reality. Mycroft stops by to deliver John's divorce papers, which he signs without even reading them. John knows Mycroft will take care of the details, and to be honest, his life is completely consumed by the perplexing puzzle that is Sherlock Holmes. After that first morning, Sherlock confides every detail of his life that John missed during their time apart. He recounts the loneliness of solving cases without John, the pain of planning John's wedding to someone else, and the heartbreak of being John's best man.

At this point, Sherlock hangs his head and whispers his most damning confession. The part he has been dreading all day. He tells John about the drugs. How he struggled that night. He had tried to refrain. He knew John would be disappointed, but Sherlock hadn't known how to handle everything - the wedding, the waltz, the deductions and emotions - without him.

To Sherlock's surprise, John does not get angry. He doesn’t yell or storm away. He brushes a curl out of Sherlock's face and wraps his fingers around Sherlock's neck. Bringing their foreheads together, John presses in. Barely a hint of pressure as their lips meet before John draws back again so only their foreheads are touching.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I should have been there," he murmurs. Brushing his nose along Sherlock's, he continues, "I'm not going anywhere this time. I'm going to be right here."

Sherlock sniffles, rests his arms on John's shoulders, and laces his fingers behind John's back.

"Promise?" he asks in an unbelievably small voice.

John smiles and squeezes Sherlock's neck.

"Promise."

Several hours later, Sherlock freezes in the middle of an experiment. John is in the sitting room reading the paper when Sherlock calls out,

"John?"

He sighs and doesn't close the paper,

"Hmm?" he responds.

"Did we…was that…"

Sherlock trails off. That gets John's attention. He folds the paper and places it on the table next to his chair. He levers himself up and saunters into the kitchen. Sherlock is seated, holding a pipette that is dripping what John can only hope is not acid onto the table. John reaches out and gently takes the pipette from him. He puts it down and turns the chair so that Sherlock faces him. He waits patiently for Sherlock to get his thoughts in order.

It takes a few moments and gives John the opportunity to study him. His shoulders are pulled up tight and his back is hunched deep into the chair - _anxiety_. John wants to break the silence and comfort him, but he knows better. Sherlock will work his way through it. He just needs time. Something seems to click and Sherlock draws in a deep breath.

"John," he says with warmth. "What we…before, the uh lip thing. Did we…was that our first kiss?" he chokes out.

He looks pleadingly at John. John answers immediately,

"Yeah, Sherlock. It was."

He searches Sherlock's face.

"Is that ok?"

Sherlock responds with an eager press of lips that effectively cuts off the conversation.

** November 4, 2014: Bonfire Night **

Although their entire paradigm has shifted, not much changes in their day-to-day lives. They still take cases and argue over fridge space. Sherlock is still impatient and inadvertently cruel. John is still exasperatedly fond. However, there are a few notable changes. John is much slower to anger and Sherlock is more content to stay home. John takes pleasure in picking up the milk and Sherlock cooks - one of the very few benefits from his time away.

During those two years, Sherlock travelled extensively and developed a diverse palate that the small-minded restaurants of London simply cannot accommodate. Every now and then, when there are no cases and Sherlock is climbing the walls, John will come home to tantalizing exotic aromas.

Tonight is one of those nights. John tries to identify the scents as he climbs the stairs, but gives up in favor of pushing open the door and seeing for himself. Sherlock is in the kitchen, no jacket, shirt-sleeves rolled up at the elbow, wearing his "kiss the cook" apron to protect his obscenely expensive clothing. He is stunningly beautiful and the image steals John's breath away. The happy, carefree movements Sherlock makes in the kitchen are so different from the hard, cold mask he usually shows that John can't help but smile. He  _loves_  this man.

Sherlock finishes pouring ingredients into a bowl, wipes his hands on his apron, and turns to face John.

"Are you going to continue standing there or are you going to help?" he asks without venom.

John pulls a chair back from the table and sits.

"I'll watch, thanks."

Sherlock blushes but returns to preparing the meal. He swings his hips as he whisks the ingredients in the bowl and dances around the kitchen. He is putting on a show that John is appreciating very much.

Once the samosas are in the oven, they settle into their chairs with glasses of wine. Sherlock takes a sip as John asks,

"So what's this all about?"

He gestures toward the kitchen. Sherlock puts the glass down and leans forward.

"I just wanted to do something nice. I missed you, John."

It's John's turn to blush and he shakes his head in disbelief.

"I was only gone four hours," he reminds Sherlock as he grabs his hand.

"It felt like an eternity," Sherlock mutters petulantly.

John brings Sherlock's fingers to his mouth and kisses each one.

"I missed you too. There are an unbelievable number of children out already. God, I hate bonfire night," he complains. "But we do have the whole evening to ourselves now," John says in a voice that sounds like a promise.

They spend the night in front of the fire wrapped in the warmth of blankets and wine. The samosas are unbelievably good and they finish them all. Sherlock wipes a few crumbs from the corner of John's mouth with his thumb and softly asks,

"Good?"

His uncertainty tugs at John's chest. He huddles closer and responds fervently,

"Very good."

"Better than being used as human kindling?" Sherlock teases.

John brings their lips together. He can taste the tangy spice of Indian food on Sherlock's tongue. Without detaching himself from Sherlock, he whispers,

"Much."

** December 24, 2014: Christmas Eve **

Soon Christmas is upon them, and it is a happy occasion this year. They plan to spend the holiday at Mummy and Daddy's again. John insists that they owe Sherlock's parents a proper holiday, given the disastrous ending of the last one. Sherlock can't be bothered to complain. For once, he is completely and unerringly happy. He bounces on the doorstep as they wait for the taxi to take them to Paddington station. His enthusiasm is infectious. John finds himself smiling and twitching with anticipation too. 

By the time they are pulling up to the cottage, Sherlock is vibrating and fidgeting like an excited puppy. They've barely stopped before Sherlock is yanking John out of the car by his wrist. Mummy and Daddy are waiting in the doorway arm-in-arm. The sight warms John's heart and for a moment he can clearly see their future. 

 _A small, cozy cottage. Sherlock with grey hair tending bees. Creaking knees and aching bones wrapped around one another underneath a heavy comforter. A flash of gold as sunlight hits their wedding rings._  

John is snapped out of his daydream by their arrival at the door. Mummy reaches out and crushes John in a tight hug. Daddy beams and shakes John's hand. They usher Sherlock and John into the house and Daddy pours them drinks as Mummy fusses. "Come in. Come in. Oh Sherlock, we are so happy you're here! And John. Oh finally!" Mummy is delirious in her happiness. Sherlock and John share a delighted look and blush into their glasses. Daddy picks up on their discomfort and speaks up.

"Alright. Leave the boys alone," he teases his wife. "Why don't you two go upstairs and get all settled in. We'll be eating in about an hour."

Sherlock looks grateful and John nods. They set down their glasses and take the stairs two-at-a-time in their excitement to get unpacked.

Christmas dinner is refreshingly normal with Mummy sniping at Sherlock over his meager portions and Sherlock firing bitter deductions back. John rests his hand on Sherlock's leg, and he shuts up with a sullen look.

"We are so happy and grateful to be here, Mrs. Holmes. Thank you so much for having us," he says, mainly to change the topic of conversation.

Mummy waves away his formality,

"Oh please, John. Call me Mummy. We are just so glad you two finally worked things out."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, which Mummy does not miss.

"Stop it, young man. You know it's true. I have not seen you this properly happy in a long time, and I am ever so grateful to John for that."

Sherlock huffs a sigh of annoyance at Mummy, but grips John's hand tightly under the table. John squeezes back reassuringly.

"I'm just happy being in his world to be honest. He is so brilliant that it's all I can do to keep up," he replies.

John knows he is gushing, but the surprised look on Sherlock's face and the resulting blush make it all worth it. It still boggles John's mind that Sherlock doesn't know how amazing he is - that no one ever tells him. Daddy gets up to clear the dishes and they move to the sitting room for coffee and dessert. Sherlock has three pieces of banoffee pie and his eyelids get very heavy. John rubs his arm and makes their apologies before dragging Sherlock up to bed. 

** December 31, 2014: New Year's Eve **

The holidays fly by and New Year's Eve finds Sherlock and John back at Baker Street. Sherlock is pulling his puppy-dog eyes trying to convince John that it is a good idea.

"No, Sherlock! Jesus! Why? Why would I possibly want to go and embarrass myself like that! Not only can I not dance, which you know full well, I will look ridiculous trying to wear anything that would be appropriate! Skin-tight jeans and ripped t-shirts look ridiculous on forty-year old men!"

John has worked himself into a veritable rage. Sherlock stalks toward John and slides into his lap. He wraps his arms around John's neck and buries his nose in John's hair.

"Please," he is openly begging now.

Sure, he is being a little manipulative, but he really wants to share this with John. He can already picture how attractive John will look in a tight black shirt that accentuates his muscular soldier's build. He can already feel the hard heat of  John's groin pressed against him. God, he wants John to take him dancing.

"Please John," he repeats earnestly.

John sighs and Sherlock knows he has won. He wiggles happily and John swats him playfully.

"Oi! None of that or we won't even make it out of the flat," he teases.

Sherlock pecks John's cheek and leaps to his feet.

"Get dressed John! We leave in twenty!"

John eyes the queue wearily and resolves himself to a long night of waiting. Sherlock, however, saunters to the front of the line and flashes an award-winning smile. The doorman blanches and John can't really blame him. Sherlock looks like a fallen angel, if angels oozed sex appeal. His slender legs are encased in tight jeans that grip his body in all the right places. He is wearing a loose white shirt and his curls are artfully arranged to fall across his face. He looks utterly fuckable. The doorman can only gape and motion them inside. John chuckles darkly and moans, low and gravelly, in Sherlock's ear, "You. Are. A. Bloody. Menace."

Sherlock wraps John's arm around his waist and makes a beeline for the bar. John watches in amazement as the crowd literally parts to let him through and the bartender immediately serves them. _Maybe this whole nightclub business won't be as bad as he thought._

Just as John is warming to the idea, a beautiful young blonde Adonis makes his way over and leans in to speak with Sherlock over the music. John, inexplicably jealous, moves closer, but refrains from physically removing the young suitor from Sherlock's presence. Instead, he holds his hand out to Sherlock, looks toward the dance floor, and raises his eyebrows in silent question. Sherlock beams. Without another word, he pops off his stool and drags John onto the floor.

The song is just ending so they sway and wait for the next one. As the electric beat pumps out of the speakers, Sherlock's gaze becomes predatory. His entire body language shifts. His hips are looser, and his stance is distinctly sexual. He pulls John in and starts to twist, writhing provocatively. John's breathing stutters as desire buzzes along every nerve ending and he forgets to be self-conscious. He rocks into Sherlock and smirks as the detective gasps. John gives as good as he gets.

Soon his arms are wrapped around Sherlock's torso, and his groin is grinding rhythmically into Sherlock's plush bum. He leans forward and sucks a dark mark into the creamy smooth neck in front of him. John feels Sherlock's rhythm falter. They are moments away from public indecency. John is painfully hard, but he is enjoying touching, teasing, stroking, grinding against Sherlock, who is beautifully undone. His face and neck are mottled red with arousal, his mouth hangs open, his lips are puffy from searing, biting kisses, his eyes are flat dark pools of desire, his hair is disheveled, and his movements only highlight the increasing restriction of his tight, tight jeans. Sweeping the sweaty fringe from Sherlock's face, John pulls him back harder. Skimming his hand down to rest around Sherlock’s neck, John leans forward and licks the shell of his ear. Nipping and sucking his earlobe, John supports Sherlock's weight as he leans back. He slips his other hand into Sherlock's front pocket and teasingly strokes along his thigh. Sherlock moans and trembles. He turns his head to meet John's lips with his own. He kisses with a single-minded determination that conveys all of the desire and admiration he feels. John runs his fingers down Sherlock's neck, under the collar of his shirt, and across the planes of his chest. His fingers trace lazy circles around a dark peaked nipple. He traces directly over the nub and Sherlock moans loudly, his head flopping back to rest on John's shoulder. John pinches it sharply and Sherlock's knees go out from under him. John catches him and kisses his forehead.

"You ready to head out?" he asks.

Sherlock blinks back at him. His brain is completely offline and he can only nod.

"Alright, up you get."

John soothes as he hauls Sherlock upright. He wraps his arm around Sherlock’s waist and curls Sherlock's arm around his shoulder. They clutch each other tightly as they wind their way out of the sweaty dark club into the crisp cool night air.

John dumps Sherlock gratefully into the waiting cab. The mad bastard is a lot heavier than he looks. Sherlock slides over and presses himself against the far window. The coolness of the glass sends shivers through his overheated body. He turns to watch John slide in next to him. Suddenly unsure, John stays firmly on his delineated side. Sherlock reaches out, takes John's hand, and gives him a dazzlingly sincere smile. Lacing their fingers together, Sherlock tugs gently and says,

"Come here."

John goes willingly and nestles into his side. They sit in contented silence until the cab pulls up to 221B. Sherlock pulls several bills out of his pocket and hands them to the driver. John follows him out onto the sidewalk and runs a palm down his back while Sherlock unlocks the front door. As the door swings shut, the frantic urgency returns and Sherlock pushes John against the wall in the entryway. Invading John's mouth with his tongue and roaming John's body with his hands, Sherlock is oblivious to everything else. The sound of a cleared throat filters slowly into his consciousness. He and John spring apart and race up the stairs.

Before the door of the flat slams shut, they yell a hasty breathless apology, "Sorry Mrs. Hudson!"

In the privacy of their flat, they surge together and ignite. Shirts, trousers, pants all fall victim to the their need to see, touch, taste each other immediately. Falling onto the bed, they lay side-by-side, chests heaving. The fervent need takes a backseat to the pure unbridled emotion of this moment. Without touching, they turn to face each other. John's eyes roam slowly over every inch of the breathtaking man beside him. He hardly realizes he is speaking.

"You are so fucking beautiful, Sherlock. Amazing. Gorgeous. Brilliant. Exquisite."

John murmurs in reverent tones. An unending litany of praise flows out of him. Sherlock looks at him with glistening eyes and whispers,

"John."

Sherlock's cock is glistening and his body is trembling with need.

"Go on," John encourages. "Touch yourself for me, Sherlock. God, please."

John begs as he runs his fingers over his own chest and teases his nipples. Sherlock's eyes go wide and he moans as he wraps one hand around his twitching erection. His body goes slack with relief as he gets some long-awaited friction. His other hand twists in the sheets but his eyes are locked on John's. It is the most erotic thing John has ever seen. He runs a hand down his abdomen to brush along the line of hair covering his groin. Sherlock squeezes, his hand twisting on every upstroke. His breathing is picking up and that lovely red flush returns to his neck and chest. John can't help telling Sherlock how beautiful he is.

"Incredible. You are so turned on. Dripping for me, aren't you?"

John pauses to lick his palm, unable to wait anymore. He gasps as his fingers coil and his eyes roll back at the slick slide of tight heat. Sherlock is fighting his body. His back is arching, his hand scrambling desperately for purchase in the sheet. His eyelashes are fluttering with the urge to close and give in. Stroking himself quicker, harder, John urges him on.

"Let go, Sherlock. Oh God. Come on, love. C-come for me. Mmm."

Sherlock chokes out John's name at the unexpected endearment. His eyes flutter shut and his mouth freezes in a silent "oh" of pleasure as he pulses over his slowing fist. The sight sends John over the edge.

"Oh God. Oh fuck. S-Sherlock. Beautiful. G-Gorgeous. Ssshhhhhherlock."

John whimpers as white-hot pleasure courses through him. He collapses shaking and sated on the bed. Sherlock, recovering first, pulls John onto his chest and holds him as he comes down. John's breathing slows and Sherlock traces his face with one finger. He follows each touch with his lips and kisses every inch of John he can reach. John smiles sleepily and starts to fade. Just before sleep takes him entirely, John feels a rumble in his ear pressed against Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock speaks in a low voice full of emotion: "I love you too, John."

** February 14, 2015: Valentine's Day **

The quiet serenity of their peaceful bubble doesn't last very long. Soon they are back on the case and there isn't time for much of anything else. Between stolen naps and hurried meals, John finds time to remember Valentine's Day. He makes plans, knowing full-well that he will have to cancel if they have not solved the case by then. John doesn't mind. Of all the shitty ways he has spent this day over the last few years, chasing down criminals with the love of his life sounds pretty perfect. The romantic in him hopes at least there might be moonlight.

In the weeks leading up to Valentine's Day, Sherlock becomes increasingly frustrated and short with everyone around him. His manic concentration on the case becomes an all-consuming obsession to rival his fixation with Moriarty. John contemplates asking Greg to take them off the case, but he decides against it. He could never do that to Sherlock. Besides, it's not like that would really stop the crazy man anyway. Thankfully, Sherlock cracks the case at 11:47pm on February 13th. John is secretly thrilled to spend their first Valentine's Day completely focused on each other. He can only hope that Sherlock is feeling more generous now that the case is solved.

John wakes around mid-morning to hot humid breath against his ear. He should be embarrassed that such a simple, involuntary gesture brings him so much joy, but he really can't be arsed to care. He loves Sherlock like this - soft, trusting, and breathtakingly beautiful. He gently rolls over, careful not to wake the sleeping detective, and just takes him in.

In these moments, John is always reminded how young Sherlock actually is. He tries so hard to hide any perceived vulnerability that he often seems much older. But the veritable peach fuzz on his chest and his smooth, unlined face tell a different story. John can feel himself hardening beneath the sheet, but it's not urgent. It is just one of the many manifestations of his longing for this man - always, in all things. Soothed by the steady rhythm of Sherlock's breathing, John dozes.

Just after noon, John's bladder makes itself known. He rises gingerly and pads barefoot into the bathroom. After relieving himself and having a quick wash, he heads back to the bedroom and crosses over to Sherlock's side of the bed. In his absence, Sherlock's limbs have overtaken John's side. They are reaching, searching, and Sherlock is making little sounds of displeasure as his search comes up empty. John smiles and leans down to press his lips to Sherlock's temple. Sherlock instantly relaxes and his eyelids start to flutter as he drifts back into consciousness. He smiles lazily at John until his brain catches up and reminds him that he ought to be irritated at being woken up.

He screws up his face into the flimsiest excuse for a frown John has ever seen. He can't help laughing, and after a few moments, Sherlock joins him. He wraps his arms around John's hips and nuzzles into his stomach. Sherlock mumbles into John’s warm fuzzy skin, and it is really a miracle that John can make out the words at all.

"…lucky I'm too well-rested to be properly cross."

He can feel Sherlock's smirk against his stomach as he says it. Sherlock seems content to stay burrowed in the sheets all day, but John has other plans. He gently extracts himself from Sherlock's grasp and when those piercing eyes look at him with a soft, searching expression, he leans in to kiss his lips. Sherlock tastes bitter like coffee, cigarettes, and greasy Chinese food, but to John he tastes like home. After several more minutes than John had really planned on, he breaks the kiss. Sliding his hands up to rest against Sherlock's cheeks, he gives him one last peck on the nose before releasing him.

"All done being unbearable then?" John teases.

Sherlock's smile falters and he fixes John with a baleful stare.

"I know I was awful, John, but I  _had_ to solve it before today. I  _had_ to."

He has seen Sherlock challenged to solve a case before, but this is different, more insistent.

"Why?" he asks.

Sherlock fusses with the sheet as he answers, "Today is supposed to be romantic."

He looks to John for affirmation. John nods his head and waits for Sherlock to continue.

"I have been reliably informed that dismembered corpses are not romantic."

Sherlock gives John an expectant look.

John laughs, "Sherlock, you complete nutter. I would have been happy no matter what, so long as I was with you."

A spasm of surprise passes over his face, but it is soon replaces with the widest smile John has ever seen. Heading for the kitchen, John tells him,

"Come on, love. Time for breakfast."

He can feel Sherlock rolling his eyes, so he pauses in the doorway and adds,

"And if you hurry, there might even be time to lounge around for a while,"

before sweeping out of the room. John doesn’t need to see to know that Sherlock is scrambling to get out of bed and down the hall. He reaches John just before he can fill the kettle, catching him in a light embrace, hands splayed across John's chest, he kisses the nape of John's neck and murmurs, "tease."

Then, he releases John in favor of bounding into the sitting room to claim the sofa. John sets about making them both a proper meal. When Sherlock doesn't move, John chides him,

"Breakfast first, Sherlock,"

without taking his eyes off the food cooking in the pan. Sherlock slinks back into the kitchen and slides gracefully into a chair at the table. John can feel the heat of his gaze tracking his movements.  _If he thinks John will cave just because Sherlock is looking at him like he wants to take him apart, he will be very disappointed. Two can play this game._

After a very nice breakfast and several hours of kissing, with brief intervals for reading and dozing some more, Sherlock is curled on the sofa with his head in John's lap. He does this quite a lot actually. John adores knowing that Sherlock is comfortable enough to ask for something that so obviously brings him pleasure. Even if the request is non-verbal. John can't help twining his fingers in those enticing dark curls. Relaxing into the soporific motion, his fingers trace lazy patterns. Every now and then he pulls gently or uses his nails to scratch his scalp. After several minutes of this, Sherlock is usually boneless and pliant, but not today. John can feel tension rolling off of him in waves, so he trails his hands lightly down that irresistible neck and starts in on his knotted shoulders.

He kneads the muscles in soft but insistent motions. This only seems to make the detective more keyed up, so John leans in to nibble his ear.

"What is it? Hmm?" he asks in a low comforting tone.

Sherlock tilts his head back to stare into John's eyes.

"I didn't get you anything."

His voice is even, but his face looks weary like he is expecting John to get upset.

"Of course you didn't," John replies steadily.

A brief pang of hurt flashes across Sherlock's face. John pulls him closer and speaks quickly, hoping to head off the oncoming strop.

"Of course you didn't, love. You've already given me everything I ever wanted. How could you possibly be expected to top that?"

Sherlock meets John's gaze and his body finally releases all of its tension. In a voice full of affection, and maybe a few tears, he utters a single word of admiration,

"John."

John's phone buzzes in his pocket, and he is grateful that he remembered to set an alarm. He certainly had not been thinking about his carefully organized plans for the night. Sherlock looks at John, curious about the reason for the alarm. It's not a common occurrence. John just flashes him an impish smile and shoves him off the sofa. Sherlock sputters with indignation, but John is already up and crossing the room.

"Last one dressed has to pay for the cab!"

He teases and takes off toward the bedroom at a full sprint. 

John had been winning until he caught sight of a completely naked Sherlock bent over to slide on his pants. He hadn't minded having to pay for the cab after that. It seemed like such a small price to pay, really. Sherlock's leg is bouncing next to his as he stares out the window. John can practically see the gears turning as he tries to puzzle out where they are going. John rests his hand palm-up on Sherlock's thigh. The restless motion stops and Sherlock laces their fingers together without even looking.

John can pinpoint the exact moment he figures it out. A small smile breaks across his face and he turns a dark gaze of anticipation on John. As they pull up, John silently curses that look. It is completely inappropriate to show up at any restaurant with a raging erection, but Angelo is particularly observant. Sherlock chuckles and John swears he is a mind reader. With a peck to John's cheek, Sherlock bounds out of the cab, leaving John to pay and discreetly adjust himself before following.

When John catches up, Sherlock is sitting at their table by the window running his finger over the Valentine's Day specialty menu. John slides in across from him and nudges his foot against Sherlock's leg. Sherlock's answering smile is suddenly shy and John's heart feels like it will beat right out of his chest. Angelo sees them and hurries over. John smiles and carries on most of the conversation. Sherlock, lost in thought, is not paying attention, so when he speaks, he interrupts their discussion of the Cioppino.

"We'll be fine with a regular menu. These specials are ridiculously overpriced."

Ignoring his stroppy partner, John orders two glasses of wine and stares at Sherlock, who refuses to look at him, until Angelo returns with two glasses of red and a candle for the table. Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but John shakes his head. Angelo gives them some time to look over the menu as Sherlock's mouth clicks shut. John leans across the table, and Sherlock admires the shadows that play across his face in the candlelight. John speaks softly and the conversation feels oddly intimate even though the restaurant is filled with other patrons.

"Sherlock, I requested this when I made the reservation."

Sherlock eyes snap up to John's.

"I remember that first Valentine's Day and the way I acted. I'm so sorry. I just want to start over and I tried to make everything different than it was."

Sherlock is staring at John with an unfathomable expression. John soldiers on,

"I'm not good with words. You know that. But I can show you. You're so clever. You can always read me, can't you? Go on, then."

Sherlock raises one eyebrow at the challenge but his gaze becomes quite intense.  John leans back but leaves his body language open waiting for Sherlock to read him. Sherlock is muttering deductions to himself but John smiles as he hears them.

"You have made a reservation, so you've clearly been thinking about this for a while. You're prior reactions to couples menus and candlelit dinners show that you understand the implications of such things, yet you specifically requested them anyway."

Sherlock's brow crumbles as he chews his lip like he is nervous that he has come to the wrong conclusion. John softly tells him:

"You see but you do not observe."

At this Sherlock narrows his eyes at John and barrels on.

"Furthermore, you made the reservation at Angelo's - our place -  _Implies sentiment._ That plus the extremely suggestive presence of all the pink hearts points toward an intention to celebrate this greeting card company manufactured holiday."

The comment seems biting but John knows it is just Sherlock's way of deflecting when he is getting too emotional. He reaches over and takes Sherlock's hand, smoothing his thumb over Sherlock's. He smiles patiently and waits for Sherlock to calm down. As he does, his brow furrows in frustration.  _There must be another deduction,_ John thinks.

"But, John. It's such a public declaration."

Mimicking Sherlock's patented response, John tilts his head and asks, "Problem?"

Sherlock seems flustered and the words trip out of his mouth.

"Well I wasn't sure, I mean, I didn't know if you would want anyone to know. If you would want to tell…anyone."

A beautiful blush creeps up on his cheeks.

"Sherlock."

John waits until he is staring into the endless galaxies of Sherlock's eyes. John likes to think of Sherlock as his own personal universe, even if he wouldn't get the references. He gives Sherlock's hand a reassuring squeeze.

"You are the best thing that could have happened to me."

John remembers saying those words to Mary and amends the statement.

"No. You are the best part of me. I want to tell everyone: Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Angelo, random strangers on the street."

He pauses for a moment.

"Even Mycroft."

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the mention of his brother, but John can see the relief and happiness written all over his face. The rest of the meal passes quickly as they eat and talk about the highly noxious experiment Sherlock wants to try and when John thinks Lestrade will have another case for them. The tone has been much lighter since John's revelation, but as they leave the restaurant, Sherlock grows solemn. He loops John's arm through his own and asks,

"Walk with me?"

It is a surprisingly mild night for mid-February, so John readily agrees.

They walk along the Thames for a good half-hour before Sherlock turns back toward the city. John doesn't mind. He rarely gets to slowly wander and revel in the beauty of London, particularly at night with the lights reflecting off the water.

As they turn away from the river, John's eye catches on a massive stone building and an involuntary shudder ripples through his body, even after all this time. Sherlock holds him closer but doesn't stop or explain why they are going to Bart's.

As they enter the hospital, John makes to turn right assuming Sherlock will want to check something in the morgue, but Sherlock pulls him left up the stairs. John wonders what new lab they will be terrorizing tonight. As they arrive on the landing of the top floor, an unsettling idea occurs to John and his head spins. He leans on Sherlock who looks soberly at him and continues up the last flight of stairs.  _He has to get John to the roof. It is imperative._ He all but drags John through the door and out into the starlit night.

John is having trouble breathing through the lump lodged in his throat. Sherlock sits with his back against the stone wall and pulls John down to rest in the space between his legs. They are pressed chest-to-back with Sherlock's coat wrapped around them. The cocoon of warmth releases a little pressure in his throat, and John sucks in deep gulps of air. Sherlock rubs his arms until his breathing is not quite so ragged. He kisses the soft skin behind John's ear and holds him close. John snuggles in and is comforted by the steady beating of Sherlock's heart.

"I know you hate this place, John. Believe me, I understand. Really, I do."

John squirms a bit. He doesn't want to be here, and he really doesn't want to talk about it. They had been having such a nice evening. Sherlock keeps talking, and John squeezes his eyes shut, concentrating on the deep resonance of his voice.

"There wasn't a lot of time, and I needed to stay in control of the situation if I wanted to survive. I couldn't do that with you there. The swimming pool taught me that, so I sent you away."

John gasps, and Sherlock tightens his grip but doesn't stop talking. He needs John to understand.

"It was the most selfish action of my entire life, and I will spend the rest of my days regretting it."

With a quick kiss to John's hair, he continues, his voice turning more urgent.

"But you have to understand, John. I didn't  _know_. Not until I was standing on that ledge looking down at you, and by then it was too late. There was nothing I could do. If I deviated from the plan at all, you could have died."

John feels warm water trickling along his scalp. He realizes that Sherlock is crying.

"You hate this place so much, and there are times when I want to hate it too for everything it took from us. But I just can't."

His voice is begging John to understand.

"I can't hate it because this is the place where I realized I was in love with you, and after everything we've been through, that is the most important thing."

Sherlock's chest is heaving and the tears are soaking John's hair faster now. John cranes his neck up to bring their lips together. The kiss is deep and wet, a mashing of tongues and lips while Sherlock gasps air into his constricted lungs. John runs a hand along Sherlock's neck and slows the kiss. Maintaining eye contact, he presses one last chaste closed-lipped kiss to Sherlock's mouth and stands. He slowly gazes around the rooftop and wanders over to run his fingers along the cool stone ledge. When he finally looks back at Sherlock, John’s face is full of understanding although a sharp intensity burns behind his eyes. He licks his lower lip and whispers,

"Take me home,"

with a voice full of heated promise. Sherlock hurries to comply.

Unlike most nights when it is all they can do to crawl into bed before they are pressed against one another - kissing, biting, rocking - chasing their release, tonight is like moving through molasses. Long languorous kisses and soft reverent touches that say more than words ever could. They ride back to 221B hand-in-hand, but they deliberately stay on their own sides of the cab. They break contact as they climb the stairs, and John closes the door behind them. They really won't want Mrs. Hudson interrupting tonight. Sherlock stands in their sitting room looking at the floor. This should be a familiar dance by now, coming together, but tonight feels different somehow. A real beginning, and John can't blame Sherlock for his hesitation. The few feet separating them might as well be a minefield of things unsaid.

Ever the soldier, John draws his shoulders back and walks tentatively toward the detective until his feet are covering the patch of carpet Sherlock has been analyzing so intently. Even from here, he can feel the electricity buzzing between them, but he doesn't pull the other man to him this time. He lightly runs his fingers up Sherlock's arms, his shoulders, his neck. He cradles that fragile skull in his palms and gently massages with his fingertips. Sherlock sighs and reaches out to rest his hands on John's waist. They stand there barely touching for several minutes. It is almost enough just to be existing in the same space. Eventually Sherlock tightens his grip and raises his chin to stare longingly at John's lips. Never one to keep him waiting, John leans forward and their lips meet. It's sad and sweet. Not enough and so, so much. Although they aren't even properly touching yet, John can feel the tremors running through Sherlock's body.

Threading his fingers into soft curls, John trails his other hand to rest at the small of Sherlock’s back. He is making tiny whimpering noises as John's tongue languidly explores every inch of his mouth. When John is satisfied that he has tasted every molecule, he gently pulls on Sherlock's hair to expose the creamy column of his neck. John trails kisses across his cheek, his jaw, his chin. He licks a warm wet line from behind Sherlock’s ear to the base of his throat. He can feel the deep vibrations of Sherlock's moan through the skin pressed to his tongue. He worships every piece of skin he can reach until Sherlock's hands are cupping his arse with the need to align their bodies. John pulls Sherlock to him with the hand at the dip of his spine as he sucks a deep mark into the base of his neck.

"God, John!" Sherlock gasps.

John moans when Sherlock slots his leg between John's and rocks. He has been so focused on Sherlock's pleasure that he hadn't noticed how hard he was getting. He nuzzles Sherlock as he rocks again. John inhales deeply to smell the dark musky sweat beading in the hollow of Sherlock’s neck. John lengthens as he realizes they are frotting fully-clothed in the sitting room like two horny teenagers.

Suddenly, John needs to be touching a lot more of Sherlock, needs to be pressed skin-to-skin. He stutters but manages to make his voice heard,

"T-take this off. Please. Take it all off."

When Sherlock reaches for him instead, John almost pulls away. He is desperate to feel the hard heat of Sherlock's muscular body, and he cannot wait another moment. But as Sherlock yanks the sweater over his head, John feels Sherlock's desire, and he is overcome. It still seems impossible to John that Sherlock wants him like this.

Sherlock makes quick work of John's trousers and vest until he is left standing in just his pants. Sherlock's gaze is a little frightening in its intensity. No one has ever wanted John like this. Like their world will literally end if they cannot touch him  _right_ _now_. John runs his tongue over his bottom lip and looks up into those liquid eyes.

"I-I want…I need…nnnnfff, Sherlock," John begs.

Sherlock smiles warmly and draws them together. As Sherlock’s hands explore his torso, John slowly unbuttons the deep burgundy shirt that reminds him of the flush that covers Sherlock's chest when John strokes him. A whisper of sound as the shirt slides from Sherlock's shoulders and hits the ground. John runs his fingers down his firm chest, barely glancing over Sherlock’s sensitive nipples. He moans anyway and leans into John's neck. John unzips his trousers with just enough pressure for Sherlock to feel his fingers tracing along his throbbing cock, but not nearly enough friction to quench his aching need.

"John,"

Sherlock whines and tries to thrust into his hand, but John moves away and finishes divesting him of said trousers. Soon they are both stripped to their pants.

They stare at each other in wonder, both barely containing their straining erections behind soft silk. In a flash, they are finally ripping each other's pants off, and John feels like he is suffocating beneath the weight of all the unspoken affection he has for the man in front of him. He circles Sherlock and lets the words come.

"I never thought we would have this - you and me, together in every way. You don't know how impossibly gorgeous you are, love. Brilliant and so bloody beautiful sometimes I can hardly believe you're real."

John is running his hands along Sherlock's sides now. He brushes his fingers across the delicate skin of Sherlock's cock as he moves to stroke the other hip. Sherlock cries out and crushes their lips together in a searing kiss.

He draws back only to murmur, "Make me real, John."

John breathes a low whine into his mouth and walks them toward the bedroom. They are unwilling to part, so it is a slow relocation filled with sloppy kisses, bruised appendages, and quiet laughter. John backs toward the bed as Sherlock kisses along his jaw. He dips his hand to stroke John. The tightly coiled desire pooling in John's stomach snaps. He spins them quickly, catching Sherlock by surprise. With no time to react, Sherlock collapses onto the mattress. John noses his way down that immaculate body, his breath tickling and teasing Sherlock's quivering abdomen. Sherlock jumps as John's tongue dips into his navel and swirls suggestively. John traces a long line from navel to hip as he tastes the salty musky sweat beading in the crease between Sherlock's hip and thigh.

John kisses his way down one strong milky thigh. Sherlock whines. He is grateful for the increased pressure, a stark contrast to the teasing breaths and licks, but it is not nearly enough. John is purposefully neglecting the one place he  _needs_ that friction. John smiles into his knee and begins slowly kissing his way up the other leg. Sherlock's hips are making short thrusting motions, searching for the contact he can't find. John glances up and sees that he has one arm slung over his eyes in desperation.

He pauses as his heart contracts painfully. Running a palm up his side, John leans in to ghost his breath over the hot wet head of Sherlock's erection. Sherlock moans and his cock twitches, instinctively pressing toward the source of the stimulation. John hitches Sherlock's hip closer and orders him,

"Watch."  

Sherlock's arm falls heavily to the side and his eyes snap open as John's lips encircle him. His pupils dilate at the wet warm suction, soft caress of silky tongue, and rough scrape of stubble along his sensitive skin. The sight of John's lips wrapped sinfully around him as golden hair bobs with effort sends molten pleasure rushing south. As John takes Sherlock in deep and contracts his throat, Sherlock reaches down to roll his nipple between thumb and forefinger. He feel John swallow as pre-come drips from his head. John slurps and splutters around him. The auditory input combined with the sight and feel of John is overwhelming. Sherlock clenches his fingers in John's hair. John seems to take this as encouragement, and he increases his speed while he reaches down to massage the delicate skin of Sherlock's swollen balls.

Sherlock can feel the pleasure cresting, and he knows he will come soon. He clears his throat, but the words still come out as more of a high keen.

"Stop. John, you have to, _oh god_ , stop."

John obediently releases him with a loud slurp and looks up at him with a mixture of concern and expectation. Sherlock, caught up in remembering every last detail of this moment, almost misses John's question.

"You alright, love?"

The soft affection in John's eyes makes Sherlock want to cry. Instead, he reaches for John and pulls until that rugged compact body rests atop his own. Their fingers find one other and twist together as their hips slide with urgency. Sherlock is peppering kisses over every piece of John he can reach. Suddenly, it is not enough. Will never be enough. John wants to be a part of Sherlock just as Sherlock is part of him. He seals their lips and drags Sherlock's hand down. He nudges Sherlock's knuckles against his own entrance and swallows the surprised gust of breath he gets in response. Sherlock's lips stop moving, but he doesn't withdraw his hand. John begs into those full, plush lips.

"Please."

Sherlock pulls back just enough to see John's face. Apparently satisfied with what he sees, he attacks John's mouth with a broken groan as he slowly circles his finger around John's puckered hole. 

After several minutes of teasing pressure, John is nearly incoherent with want. He needs some part of Sherlock inside him right now or he will break apart.

“Sherlock, please…” he pants.

Sherlock places a delicate kiss on his thigh but does not change his speed. Or his pattern. A thought breaks through the fog of arousal clouding John’s brain. John forces his eyes to meet Sherlock’s and his face confirms John’s suspicion. Sherlock’s look is full of frustration, longing, and sadness. He so clearly wants to make John feel good but has no idea what to do. John drops a kiss on Sherlock’s pectoral and rolls away to reach for the bedside table. Sherlock grunts and tries to pull him back.

“Honestly, John. I can figure this out. I just…”

Sherlock trails off as John finds the lube he was looking for and slides closer, placing the bottle in Sherlock’s hand. He settles comfortably on his back and motions down his body.

“I know, love. I just think this will be easier if you can move freely. And see.”

Sherlock drapes himself over John and flips open the cap. He generously coats his fingers, then places the bottle within arms reach as he settles between John’s thighs. John squeezes his eyes closed in anticipation. Several seconds pass. Nothing happens. Sherlock sighs in frustration and John flicks his eyes open. Sherlock is still nestled between his thighs, but his eyebrows are scrunched up and his mouth is a grim line. John relaxes back and lets his eyes flutter shut.

“Just like before, love. Little circles. _Yes._ Good. Gorgeous, Sherlock. _God._ I want you inside of me. _Now._ Just the tip of your finger. Slowly…aaand out. _Uh._ Perfect. You’re p-perfect. _Again.”_

John can feel his concentration slipping, his body trying to take over and drag his brain offline. Before he loses all rational thought, John manages to choke out,

“You’re doing so well, love. S-so good. Just keep goinggg. Slow. Just like that. Yes. Please!”

John knows the detective won’t be able to resist exploring all of John’s reactions. Sherlock keeps the pace for the next few strokes. Then, on the next thrust, he twists his finger on the withdrawal and John whimpers.

Once he’s started, Sherlock is insatiable. He tries every different combination of speed, depth, angle, and pattern he can think of with one solitary finger. John is rocking his hips back and moaning into his fist.

“M-more. Jesus! P-please,” he begs and Sherlock responds with enthusiasm.

He retests all the combinations he tried with one finger, but John can’t seem to predict the order. He is overwhelmed by the slick slide and gentle burn of Sherlock’s fingers inside of him. Stretching him. Claiming him. He moans wantonly as those thoughts flash through his brain, but the sound is choked off as Sherlock’s clever tongue licks a line from his fingers to the tip of his aching cock. He swirls his tongue around John’s head, licking and tasting as his fingers continue their steady rhythm. Finally, John can’t stand it anymore. His hand finds Sherlock’s arm and grips him tightly. Sherlock pauses and looks up at him. The open trusting look on his face is almost enough to undo him right then.

Breathing through the arousal coursing through him, John whispers to the man he loves more than anyone else in this world,

“I’m yours, love. Please. I need you inside of me. Now.”

Sherlock makes a strangled sound deep in his throat and kisses John’s hip as he slowly withdraws his fingers. He presses a hand to John’s hip, trying to turn him over. John grabs his hand and shakes his head.

“But John!” Sherlock argues. “All the websites agree that this is easier and more enjoyable when the recipient of the penetration is face-down, at least the first time.”

John’s eyes water at the implications of this statement.

“Of course you’ve been swotting up,” John teases.

He runs a palm along his cheek to reassure Sherlock that he is only joking. His face grows serious as he cups Sherlock’s cheek and leans in to remind him,

“When have we ever done things the easy way. I never wanted easy, Sherlock. I’ve always wanted _you_. Please, at least this time? I want to see your face.”

Sherlock nods and strokes his hand reverently down John’s cleft one last time before aligning himself properly. He presses his head against John’s puckered hole and stays there, just enough pressure to keep John teetering on the edge of pleasure but not enough to actually press into his body. He waits patiently and it takes John several seconds to catch up. He smiles and nods his assent. Sherlock doesn’t wait any longer. John feels a slick slide of blessed friction as Sherlock presses in. The stretch burns, but John bears down until Sherlock is fully seated inside of him.

Salty liquid drops softly onto John’s face. He opens his eyes searching for Sherlock, but he needn’t have worried. Sherlock looks awestruck but determined, not a hint of tears. Sweat runs down his neck as he forces himself to stay still. Sherlock’s belly quivers with the effort. Adoration. The word is not nearly enough to capture the look on Sherlock’s face, but it’s the closest word John can think of. He is trapped between Sherlock’s body and the mattress, bracketed by strong steady arms. John is safe and so, so in love. He licks his lips and croaks out the word Sherlock has been waiting for,

“Move.” 

Sherlock's breath rushes out in a deep huff of air as he slowly pulls back. John laments the emptiness. But it is only a moment before Sherlock is pushing back in. He sighs in relief. John's breathing rises to match Sherlock’s as his movements become proper thrusts. He reaches up to brace himself against the headboard as he pushes back with each thrust, wanting Sherlock deeper. The detective’s thrusts are already growing erratic and John knows that neither of them will last very long. He wraps his legs around Sherlock’s waist and uses his ankles to encourage him. Sherlock’s control is snapping and he is rutting into John. He has never looked so beautiful. His chest is mottled red and his arms are shaking with the effort of holding himself up. His curls are bouncing and his voice is a constant stream of breathy moans. John can feel his release building and he knows it will be over in just a few moments. Gathering his thoughts, he manages to force out one last coherent sentence before his orgasm crashes over him:

“I love you.”

John is shaking and falling. His joints are coming unglued and he is floating, untethered. Somehow, he still sees Sherlock. Watches as the reality of those words break over him. Feels each pulse of Sherlock's orgasm inside his own body. John manages to wind his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders as he crashes against John’s chest.

Somehow, John is the one crying now. Tiny little rivulets running down his cheek to soak those soft, dark curls. But it doesn’t matter. He has never been this happy. They have never been this happy, and, for the first time in a long while, everything is going to be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested Cioppino is an Italian fish stew. It was developed in the late 1800s by Italian immigrants who settled in the North Beach neighborhood of San Francisco, many from the port city of Genoa. Originally it was made on the boats while out at sea and later became a staple as Italian restaurants proliferated in San Francisco. The name comes from ciuppin which is the name of a classic soup from the Italian region Liguria, similar in flavor to cioppino but with less tomato and using Mediterranean seafood cooked to the point that it falls apart.The dish also shares its origin with other regional Italian variations of seafood stew similar to ciuppin, including cacciucco from Tuscany, brodetto di pesce from Abruzzo, and others. Similar dishes can be found in coastal regions throughout the Mediterranean, from Portugal to Greece. Examples of these include suquet de peix from Catalan-speaking regions and bouillabaisse from Provence. (info from Wikipedia)


	7. February 14, 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very happy ending all around!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forever?

**February 10, 2016**

"Male. Early thirties, a swimmer going by his physique _."_

John stifles a chuckle. "Bit ironic, isn’t it?"

Sherlock shares a small smirk of amusement, but focuses again when the DI clears his throat.

"Killed less than two days ago. Body was deposited in the river almost immediately after death. Killer wasn’t wasting any time. He obviously miscalculated the depth – it’s much too shallow for the body to have remained undisturbed." 

Sherlock goes quiet as he leans in to study the victim’s arm. John takes the opportunity,

"I don’t understand. He went to all the trouble of hiding the body but didn’t bother to make sure it would stay hidden? Was he in a hurry or just too lazy to do it properly?" 

Sherlock shoots John a look of approval, the one he gives when John is asking the right questions.

"Or maybe he wanted the body to be found. Too soon to tell. It’s…"

John cuts him off,

"..dangerous to theorize without all the facts. Yeah, so you say." 

Sherlock steps back, so John crouches down to examine the body. Lestrade seems to remember he is supposed to be investigating,

"Hang on - he? The killer is a man?"

Sherlock sighs, "It's statistically more likely but not definitive."

Undeterred by Sherlock’s unwillingness to elaborate, Lestrade asks,

"You said he was killed less than two days ago. How can you tell?"

John straightens and goes to stand at the detective’s side. Ever the mediator, he soothingly asks,

"Sherlock, you want to take us through it?"

But Sherlock sulks and shrugs. _Even Lestrade should be able to figure this one out,_ he thinks. _It’s basic biology._ John interrupts his thoughts,

"It’s the level of decomp, right?"

Sherlock blinks stupidly. John Watson, always a marvel. He nods in surprise and gestures for John to go on.

"Well, the body hadn’t decomposed enough to float to the surface, although it would have soon if the boat hadn’t dredged it up. It shouldn’t have taken more than 24 or 48 hours, but it has been cold. That would have delayed the process a day or two,"

John finishes with a shy smile. Sherlock feels like his heart will explode at the happiness of having John. Truly having him. In his life, in his Work, in all things.

Uncertain of Sherlock’s silence, John asks, "What did I miss?" Sherlock grins and takes a deep breath…

..Lestrade is yelling into the phone, "Oi! We were not finished yet!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes as he and John slip into a cab. John gently covers Sherlock’s hand with his own. These gestures still surprise Sherlock. A soft, comforting touch in the back of a cab. A gentle peck of acknowledgement as John walks by. Reminders that send Sherlock’s stomach into free fall. He gently squeezes back and refocuses on the irate detective inspector.

"…besides we’ll need you to walk us through it so we can get it all down in the report, Sherlock."

Sherlock grunts with impatience and ends the call with a perfunctory,

"Later, Graham _."_

He slips the phone into his pocket and turns to face John. Sherlock leans down to peck John’s wind-chapped lips and hums contentedly. John chuckles and breaks the kiss to ask,

"How long will it take him to realize you took your own samples?"

Sherlock crowds John against the door and growls,

"We have plenty of time."

* * *

 

They do in fact have several hours before Lestrade turns up at 221B. By then, Sherlock is deep into his analysis at the kitchen table. Lestrade manages a cursory nod and a short acknowledgement of John’s presence before he rounds on the detective.

"What the hell were you thinking!" 

He rages.

"You could have compromised the entire case!"

Sherlock snorts in disbelief and John hides his laughter. _That is definitely not the tact to take if Greg wants to make his point._

Sherlock fires back,

"That case was boring, Inspector. If you are going to waste my time I should at least get something out of it!"

He points at the samples in front of him.

"My metal alloy analysis has been neglected for far too long and the victim had interesting residue in the shallow cuts along his arm. It’s a good starting place!"

Sherlock finishes with finality, as if that resolves the issue. John supposes if the argument had been with him, it would have. Lestrade, however, gapes and sputters,

"You did all this to play guess the metal??"

Sherlock replies,

"Yep-p!"

 _P_ opping the “P” defiantly at the end. Lestrade goes purple and John decides it’s time to intervene.

"Okay. Alright! Greg, why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll make some tea, yeah?"

 Lestrade raises a skeptical eyebrow and John laughs:

"With whiskey, then."

Lestrade visibly calms and runs his hand through his hair.

"Nah, I shouldn’t. Still technically on duty. ‘Ta though, John."

With one last exasperated look at Sherlock, the detective inspector sweeps out of the flat. John turns to his annoying git of a partner to ask,

"Was that really necessary?"

Sherlock mutters darkly without looking up,

"He was being dull."

John sighs and turns to put the kettle on. He turns his back to Sherlock so he won’t see the smile splitting his face.

* * *

  **February 14, 2016**

Sherlock has been at this for days and it is driving John up the wall. He has been running in and out of the flat to retrieve samples to compare with the residue. Normally, that would keep the crazy bugger occupied for at least a week, but for some reason, he seems to want John’s input on ever comparison! It only takes a few days for John to snap.

"I don’t know, Sherlock!"

he yells as piece of copper wire is shoved unceremoniously between his mouth and a forkful of beans. John abandons his breakfast and yanks on his jacket.

"You’re the genius! You figure it out!"

He clambers down the stairs and Sherlock’s heart sinks. Watching John leave is still painful, even after all this time. But John, ever-thoughtful brilliant beautiful John, remembers to yell

"I’ll be back later. Just need some air!" up the stairs before the door slams shut.

Sherlock waits a whopping 43 minutes before he makes the call.

"Do you have a murder for us or are you going to make me commit one myself?"

Lestrade sounds tired when he replies,

"Sorry mate. Been busy. Nothing interesting enough for you, though."

 Sherlock recognizes a little bite in the statement.

"You want me to apologize, yes? Tell you what I did was wrong and that I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that."

Sherlock waits, but Lestrade is silent on the other end. In a small voice, Sherlock gives in. _Anything for John_.

 _"_ I am, you know – sorry."

Lestrade breathes out and his voice is softer and lighter when he replies.

"I know. Look, I will let you know when we get something, alright?"

* * *

 

When John returns, he finds Sherlock manically pacing the living room floor with a dart in his hand. A cursory glance around the room reveals several cold cups of tea and the DI’s identification card pinned to the wall with several more darts. Sherlock huffs and sends the last one sailing neatly through the DI’s face. John settles into his chair and asks,

"Lestrade being annoying, then?"

Sherlock kisses John’s head before sitting neatly across from him.

"Not really."

John pulls a skeptical face and waits. Sherlock looks resigned but explains,

"He won’t give us a case, John! Even after I apologized for…you know."

John feels a rush of affection for this loveable crazy man.

"Well, he can’t will interesting murders into existence, love. What about your alloy analysis?" 

Sherlock’s face goes uncertain, like this is dangerous territory, and his hand twitches in his pocket. 

"I solved it."

Sherlock holds his closed fist over John’s open palm and drops a small metal object. John studies it for a moment and asks,

"Platinum?"

Sherlock gives a non-committal hum and fidgets.

"In the end, it was rather simple," he replies.

John turns the metal over in his hand. It is surprisingly light and it glints in the lamplight. It looks new.

"For godssake, if you knicked this off some poor bloke just for the sake of your experiment…!"

Sherlock’s eyes snap up to John’s and he goes still.

"I didn’t," he says quickly.

John decides that he has let Sherlock squirm long enough. He can’t stand to see the man so unsure of John’s reactions. _How can he not know how much John loves him by now?_ He licks his lips, leans forward, and starts,

"Listen, about before. I-I shouldn’t have snapped like that." 

John looks up at Sherlock as he runs his hand nervously along the nape of his neck, waiting for Sherlock’s response.

"It’s fine, John," he says as if dismissing the whole thing.

John looks down, focusing on the metal so he does not have to look at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock continues to fidget. He wishes he could dispel this tension. An engraving in the metal catches John’s eye and steals his breath. Sherlock’s eyes flick between John and the platinum band in panic. It says simply,

_Forever? – SH_

John sits in stony silence and Sherlock becomes less and less certain of his response with every passing second. _How is he still so bad at reading John’s emotions? He thought John would want this. Maybe, it’s the idea of marriage – too many negative connotations. Stupid, he should have realized._

A choked sob interrupts his thoughts and now Sherlock is really confused. _John is smiling and crying. What is he supposed to do with that? Mixed messages. Utterly unfair._ Finally, John wraps steady, warm fingers around Sherlock’s wrist and pulls him onto John’s lap. His lips are warm and salty from the tears. John’s voice is so small and full of hope when he answers,

_Always._

* * *

 

Three months later on a beautiful spring day, John will give Sherlock his own ring with John’s answer etched inside. It will remind Sherlock that he never has to question his future, or John’s place in it again. The ring will press John’s promise into Sherlock’s skin every moment John is not able to do so himself. Sherlock will hardly need the reminder that day. From the moment they say, _I do,_ John never stops telling him. A warm hand clasping his, a quick meeting of lips, strong arms encircling him as they sway together in the fading afternoon light. Every touch promises a lifetime and for now, that is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always.
> 
> Ok, anyone reading this, thanks! I am thinking about adding an epilogue covering the post-proposal smut. Would you like to see that? If I do not hear from anyone, I probably won't add it (and I will also go cry in a corner), so let me know what you think. Please and Thank You!


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